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The moment you bite into that crispylicious coating, piercing the lightly seasoned skin that gives way with a satisfying crunch, the flakes of airy, fried batter dissolve, melting away within a juicylicious burst of hot, moist flesh between your lips.
The flavours are simple—deceptively simple. Your trained, discerning tastebuds recognize only five spices: Black pepper, cinnamon, anise, cloves...perhaps fennel as well. It’s laughably rudimentary. And it’s not even a custom blend, you observe, altogether too smugly.
For there is another flavour you can barely perceive, but yet cannot name. Its identity eludes you. Impossible, you think. There is no taste, no ingredient known to man, that is beyond your ability to recognize—nothing escapes the insightful scrutiny of your talented tongue. What must you do for it to surrender its secrets?
In your mouth, the meat is impossibly fall-off-the-bone tender, and practically glides, silky smooth upon the palate.
You’d swear that somewhere, angels are singing.
You want to savour every drop of that delectable, umami-laden nectar. You’re salivating; the glands in the corners of your jaw clench sharply, squirting into your mouth the climax of your ecstasy as you chew with a wild, almost reckless abandon of which you never thought yourself capable. You furtively lick your lips, unwilling that any should go to waste. Were you alone, you would not hesitate to devour greedily every remaining morsel. Right down to the last tasty bite, you would suck the bone dry.
And you know that one can never masticate too much, or too often. It’s all for the sake of one’s health, of course.
Eventually, you swallow, reluctant to let your face betray your eagerness. What fills your belly almost transports you to another place entirely. You need more of it inside you.
Above all, you desire to know by what sorcery this mouthwatering epiphany has been concocted.
A seductive siren-song of savoury aroma lures you in, beckoning you to have another piece. You must have another piece. One is simply not enough. It can never be enough. You haven’t yet touched the gravy. Its scent calls to you, irresistibly piquing your curiosity.
It takes every fibre of willpower in your being to resist. You don't want to resist. But resist it, you must. To do any less would be traitorous, or worse yet, un-American.
You want to lick your fingers.
This is not merely deep-fried chicken. No. It’s a miracle. A revelation. A transcendent experience.
And you are Harland Sanders. You know your fried chicken.
Fried chicken is life.
Still, you are a Southern gentleman. You are nothing, if not well-mannered. So, you compose yourself. Professor Dog is watching. Drooling.
Also, scrutinizing you is the amateur chef practically buzzing in nervous anticipation at your side. She is your newest classmate, the international exchange student who created this unexpected masterpiece—this ambrosian delicacy. With a tone you might have interpreted as an impudent demand—had she not been so incredibly polite—she says, “You should try it with the rice. It’s best eaten with rice.”
You narrowly avoid reacting the same way you almost did when you saw her put soy sauce—of all things—in the gravy. You refuse to be bested by this strange waif, only five apples tall. After all, your original recipe has more than double the secret spices as hers does.
This is the United States of America. More is always better, in America.
You want to praise her fluency in the English language, to remark on how well she speaks, but immediately stop yourself. You are the epitome of tact. Of course, she speaks English well. Her country had once been part of the U.S.A., after all.
But if she’s going to stay in America for any length of time, you know she’ll have to smooth out that accent of hers, or no one will understand what she’s saying. You generously consider volunteering to tutor her after class, to improve her pronunciation.
“What n’ tarnation did youse say yer name was again, darlin’?” You ask instead, stroking your immaculately trimmed goatee.
“Jolie,” the petite exchange student replies, flashing a lively smile, “Jolie Biagan.”
This Jolie Biagan is undoubtedly the largest—if not the only—red bumblebee you’ve ever met. And never before have you laid eyes on a bee that had such a jolly demeanour.
“Miss Jolie,” you admit with magnanimity, “This is very good...fer a beginner.”
“I’ve been cooking for a very long time, sir.” Her ample, shapely thorax puffs out in pride.
Not as long as I have, you tell yourself. Why, when you were only 7 years old, you’d already excelled in bread and vegetables and were coming along nicely in meat.
“Y’don’t hafta call me ‘sir’, y’know—we’re not that formal, here.”
Her pointed mandibles twitch downwards in confusion. “But the others called you ‘Colonel’...are you not a real colonel?”
Embarrassed, you clear your throat, muttering, “It’s...forget about it. Jus’ call me ‘Harland’.”
“Harland,” she repeats doubtfully, as though rolling around something new in her mouth, and clearly concluding that she does not care for the taste of it. “The secret is to use only the dark meat,” she confesses, with a happy wave of her antennae. “Chicken breast is too dry.”
You doubt that’s her only secret. Earlier, you had watched as she’d delicately hand-breaded each drumstick, squeezing it between her nimble forelegs, carefully pressing the dredged coating beneath every fold of skin, making sure that not an inch of meat was neglected by her ministrations.
She, too, brines her chicken before breading and frying. That much is obvious. It’s a greenhorn technique. There must be something else—there must be another ingredient. You can almost put your well-manicured, surreptitiously licked finger on it. It's on the tip of your tongue. Maybe it’s something extra in the marinade. You’re sure of it. What the devil could it be?!
But every one of the many, minuscule lenses in Jolie’s hairy and unblinking compound eyes is dark and inscrutable. You see only yourself reflected within them. She is a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a fuzzy, winged exoskeleton.
It’s only later, once all the other students and teachers have gone, that the two of you are left alone in the kitchen classroom: the only ones still meticulously tidying your counters and preparing ingredients for tomorrow’s lessons.
In your rush not to be seen, you nearly collide with each other in the pantry.
Your hand brushes her hooked claw as you both simultaneously reach for the same canister, hidden away in a corner at the back of the highest shelf. Your eyes meet, and in trepidation, you share a knowing glance.
In that moment, everything suddenly becomes clear. The burden of your deep, dark secret—that Herculean weight upon your shoulders—lifts. For once, you are not alone.
She shrinks back, gasping coyly, “Oh, Harland! We—we mustn’t!” She leans heavily upon you, her flexible, hairy legs trembling against your muscular chest. “What will my Lola think?! She spent almost all of her life’s savings to send me here, to provide for our family. I can’t—oh, the shame of it!” she sobs.
“There, there. It’s all right, Miss Jolie,” you insist, offering her your monogram-embroidered handkerchief. You step back, wiping away whatever it is she's secreted upon your bolo tie. "Yer secret is safe with me. Ladies first,” you declare, and with a genteel, deferential nod, pass her the jar of monosodium glutamate. “Welcome to ‘murica.”
